She received a missive. It was long, like an
official document; it bore evidence of having been
carried for some hours in a coat-pocket, and was folded
in one of those old, troublesome ways in use before
the days of envelopes. Aurora pulled it open.
“It is all figures; light a candle.”
The candle was lighted by Clotilde and held over Aurora’s
shoulder; they saw a heading and footing more conspicuous
than the rest of the writing.
The heading read:
“Aurora and
Clotilde Nancanou, owners of Fausse Riviere
Plantation, in account
with Honore Grandissime.”
The footing read:
_ “Balance at
credit, subject to order of Aurora and Clotilde
Nancanou, $105,000.00_.”
The date followed:
“March
9, 1804.”
and the signature:
“H. Grandissime.”
A small piece of torn white paper slipped from the
account to the floor. Clotilde’s eye followed
it, but Aurora, without acknowledgement of having
seen it, covered it with her foot.
In the morning Aurora awoke first. She drew from
under her pillow this slip of paper. She had
not dared look at it until now. The writing on
it had been roughly scratched down with a pencil.
It read:
“Not for love
of woman, but in the name of justice and the
fear of God.”
“And I was so cruel,” she whispered.
Ah! Honore Grandissime, she was kind to that
little writing! She did not put it back under
her pillow; she kept it warm, Honore Grandissime,
from that time forth.
BAD FOR CHARLIE KEENE
On the same evening of which we have been telling,
about the time that Aurora and Clotilde were dropping
their last tear of joy over the document of restitution,
a noticeable figure stood alone at the corner of the
rue du Canal and the rue Chartres. He had reached
there and paused, just as the brighter glare of the
set sun was growing dim above the tops of the cypresses.
After walking with some rapidity of step, he had stopped
aimlessly, and laid his hand with an air of weariness
upon a rotting China-tree that leaned over the ditch
at the edge of the unpaved walk.
“Setting in cypress,” he murmured.
We need not concern ourselves as to his meaning.
One could think aloud there with impunity. In
1804, Canal street was the upper boundary of New Orleans.
Beyond it, to southward, the open plain was dotted
with country-houses, brick-kilns, clumps of live-oak
and groves of pecan. At the hour mentioned the
outlines of these objects were already darkening.
At one or two points the sky was reflected from marshy
ponds. Out to westward rose conspicuously the
old house and willow-copse of Jean Poquelin.
Down the empty street or road, which stretched with
arrow-like straightness toward the northwest, the
